Late one lonely October night, Willa goes into the bedroom and opens the drawer on the bottom of the dresser, rightmost but one. She pulls out an hour of March.

There were more lamps back then. Willa walks out into a bright room full of the music of which they weren’t yet sick, full of blankets and jokes and dirty spaghetti bowls, full of everyone uncaring. He had his head in Maddy’s lap that night, but at least he was there.

Willa takes off her watch and smiles. Nothing in March is broken. An hour is long enough. Everything is good.